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Saturday, November 28, 2009

I am David Hasselhoff. And not because I was videotaped lying in a drunken heap on the floor scarfing cheeseburgers. (Well, not just because...)

According to my site statistics of late -- I am huge in Germany.

Perhaps the fact that I'm wearing a dirndl in my profile picture has finally paid off. Perhaps my German readers appreciate that I host a big Oktoberfest party every year. Perhaps my love of wieners is blatantly obvious.

Thank you, Germany. With apologies to the great JFK, "I am a (not worthy) donut."

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

One Thanksgiving, I drove to Virginia Beach to have Thanksgiving Dinner with my parents. It was just going to be the three of us that year...having a small, quiet, family Thanksgiving.

Until my dad was (characteristically) inspired to do something really nice. He found out that an artist he worked with had nowhere to go for the holiday, so he invited the guy to share the day with us, too.

The man was a freakishly talented painter and a raging alcoholic. The guy didn't drive, so my father offered to pick him up and drive him to our house, with the stipulation that the invitation was contigent on the guy not having anything to drink that day. (Let's be honest here...telling an alcoholic they cannot have booze on a holiday is like telling Lindsay Lohan that she should not wear leggings as pants -- even though they know the results will be disastrous, the allure is just too great.)

I'm pretty sure you can guess how this played out. The guy was tanked when my dad got to his house. My dad, not wanting the guy to be drunk and alone on Thanksgiving (showing of hands, please...how many of you would LOVE to be drunk and alone on Thanksgiving?), loaded the guy into the car and brought him over. He poured this guy into his chair at the dinner table and the guy proceeded to say the most foul, obscene and lecherous things to and about my mother and I all during dinner.

I could see my father's face getting redder as he tried to contain this guy's outbursts as much as possible and scolded him after each new rude remark. It was really, really uncomfortable. Until it got really, really funny. After a while, we all realized that this guy was so out of it that he had no idea what he was saying and each inappropriate comment became more hilarious. (Especially when we'd toss in asides like, "I bet this is just like the first Thanksgiving" and "Pass the stuffing, Sugar Tits.")

Dinner seemed to last an eternity, then my dad did the "driving home of drunken artist friend" that is so steeped in Thanksgiving tradition.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Late last night, we got back from our trip to Disney World. In the past five days, my child was made over princess style at the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique (I threw up a little in my mouth as I was typing that), dined with Cinderella at her castle, ate breakfast with Minnie, Donald and Goofy, and observed giraffes, zebras and other animals from the balcony of our hotel room at the Animal Kingdom Lodge. (Envision Canetto and I looking pathetic while pulling out pocket linings here.)

I have lots to discuss from this trip including, but not limited to, the vast scooter brigade, the all-Christian-all-the-time programming on the hotel television (except for the Miley Cyrus channel), and the area of Fantasyland called "Pooh's Playful Spot." You read that right. Chewing gum is the devil, but they name a children's playground after a pantsless bear's privates.

Friday, November 13, 2009

(Take a moment to peruse, then continue on to the commentary and discussion questions below...)

1) Please do not let it be lost on you that the Judge's name is Judge Brown.

2) I appreciate the clarification that it was "his" feces. Did they analyze it? Did they ask? Is it any more or less gross or does it add anything to the story by specifically designating them (it?) as "his" feces? (As my friend, Simon, noted, "I can see him in the interview room: "Of course it was my own feces; what kind of weirdo do you take me for?")

3) How quickly do you think the juror dumped (pun intended) the computer case?

4) How does one sneak a bag of feces into a courtroom under their clothes? (This is a rhetorical question. RHETORICAL!)

5) If a feces-flinging robber heads north at 65 mph and passes an unsuspecting lawyer heading south going 45 mph, at what point does the lawyer decide that he might just want a nice data entry job?

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Yesterday, while spending several hours fostering my delusions of grandeur by adding snooty-toot titles in front of my name, I was at work, I received my first invitation to attend an event as a "key influencer."

And not just any event, an event at Radio City Music Hall for "bloggers and other key influencers" to celebrate The Christmas Spectacularin New York City. Which is only something I have wanted to see since I was a kid, having heard nothing but fantastic things about this for as long as I can remember. (It really is one of the quintessential New York City experiences...along with being urinated on and getting yelled at by a deli owner when you don't understand that a "regular" coffee is one that comes with milk and sugar.)

Assignment: In ten words or less, please let me know how I have influenced you, gentle Brutalism reader. Extra points if your comment is in the form of haiku, references fecal matter or is sent from a correctional facility.

The exclusive (If you wondered how much I loved typing that the party I was invited to is “exclusive” and thought “I bet she loved it a lot,”....you would be right.) party celebrates the 2009 Radio City Christmas Spectacular and would have me mingling with the world-famous Radio City Rockettes, Santa Claus, and other bloggers from the area. (Which, honestly, has been a fantasy of mine since forever. Except that in my version, the Rockettes are naked except for dirty argyle socks, Santa is a Siamese twin, and we are all eating Kentucky hot browns.) (I know. A rather pedestrian fantasy for someone who calls herself "Brutalism.")

So kill me. As awesome as that sounds, I have an awesome conflict and cannot go. This, my friends, is what is known as "bittersweet."

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Canetto suggested we purchase a membership to Wolf Trap because we want to get our Chris Isaak and Mamma Mia! tickets a day earlier than the people in steerage are major supporters of the arts.

Because I have to do everything, he made me complete the transaction (not a euphemism). And I have just this to say: Wolf Trap...your "title" section of the Membership form is an immature woman's playground.

Friday, November 06, 2009

Often, I e-mail myself with (riotously funny) blog post ideas because if I don't, they immediately leave my booze-addled brain and I will be staring at a blank computer screen into the wee hours of the morning trying to remember the story that was finally going to put Brutalism on the map.

This also serves to provide the "full e-mail inbox" validation that I crave, and if that must be achieved by sending e-mail to myself, then so what? (Though I do wish I would stop sending myself performance enhancment product solicitations.)

I just came across one of these "e-mails to self" that I sent to me a few weeks ago. It includes the following suggested topics:

Disappearing after Children of the Corn late show with Erle

Simon -- G.G. Allin documentary, convincing me for years that I broke wind when I fell asleep in a room full of people (I didn't), threesome in New Orleans

Much like movie trailers, I'm thinking these stories may be more compelling in the abbreviated format above. I ask you, gentle readers, do you want the whole story(ies) or is it more fun to let your minds wander?

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

Have I mentioned that I worked for THE ORGANIZATION THAT DOES NOT HATE FREEDOM for more than five years? One of the best jobs I ever had (and I've had a bunch of 'em). I worked with some of the most fun people during those five years, and I'm sure it had very little to do with the fact that I was single, in my 20s and drinking heavily.

I did a lot of things for NRA and one year I got put on a special project -- the Charlton Heston Celebrity Shoot out in Dana Point, California. Glamour! Excitement! "Celebrities!"

While there, I had a bet with a consultant as to which of us could get our picture taken with the funniest celebrity (funny in a B-list way, not in a "ha ha" way). I ended up winning -- finding and taking a picture with Jerry Mathers. The photo became my Christmas card that year with the greeting, "Merry Christmas. Love, Kathleen and the Beav." I gave one to a friend of mine in grad school who later became my husband. He still likes to joke that the reason he fell for me was that I so freely gave out my "beaver shot."

My Beaver shot.

Earlier in the evening, I was hanging out with Nat from the Peach Pit on Beverly Hills 90210. Seriously, at that time, he was my Brad Pitt -- I so loved 90210. I talked to Nat (still cannot remember his real name) in the bar for an hour or so -- don't remember a lot of it. About a week after I got back from the shoot, however, my sister (who lives in Florida) and I each received autographed head shots of Nat. Apparently, at some point in the evening, I wrote down both addresses and gushed enough to prompt the head shot sending.

But the best story......
One night, I stayed out til four in the morning, partying with some of the celebs at a party that only the cool kids were invited to. Now, because I worked for a non-profit, I was sharing a room with a co-worker on this particular trip. She had gone to bed around 10:00 that night and was fast asleep by the time I found my way back to the room. At this point, the minibar was just screaming to me, so I opened it, found a huge Hershey's chocolate bar and that's the last I remember -- UNTIL....at about 6:00am, I woke up to my roommate standing over my bed and yelling like a maniac. She was practically hysterical...pointing at me and screaming. I jumped up and also started screaming and ran to the bathroom to see what she was pointing at.

Apparently, in the dim light of the hotel room that morning, the choclate bar that I had fallen asleep with had smeared all over my face and bed, looking a lot like blood. She thought someone had come into the room and blugeoned me to death while she slept.

I was still clutching what remained of the chocolate bar -- apparently only willing to give it up once it was pried from my cold, dead hands.